


Nick Jonas Throws in the Towel

by smithereen



Category: Jonas Brothers
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithereen/pseuds/smithereen
Summary: Once upon a time in New York City. (This was a 5 years later future fic when I wrote it in 2010, but 9 years later I guess you would call it an alternate past.)





	Nick Jonas Throws in the Towel

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in February 2010.

Joe meets him at the airport in New York. He wears a little black cap, and a long black jacket, and black driving gloves. He holds up a sign that says _Big Shot Record Producer_ on it. Nick tries not to laugh, his lips twisting up with the effort, steps picking up faster and faster like any second now he's going to start sprinting right in the middle of baggage claim. Joe's arms close around his waist, strong and familiar, and he lifts Nick up off the ground like they're still little kids. His hat falls off. He jostles the laugh loose from Nick's lips, lets Nick get his feet back on the ground reluctantly. His right hand lingers on Nick's waist before he pulls back, slips on his mirrored aviators and says, "The car's right outside. Sir."   
  
Nick laughs again, bubbling up with it, and snags the sunglasses off Joe's face. He pushes them up his own nose, smirking. Joe shakes his head a little, smiles. He uses his toe to flip his hat off the floor and up into his hand. Nick runs his fingers over the dark short-shorn bristles of Joe's hair, feeling the soft tickle of it against his palm. He rubs again, Joe's eyes on him, wide and watching.  
  
"I like it short," Nick says softly, his thumb moving restlessly against the hard curve of Joe's skull.   
  
"Mom says it makes me look like I just got out of prison." Joe smiles and reaches to twist his finger up in one of Nick's curls. He tugs once, and Nick feels the past six months unraveling, the tension in his shoulders sagging, the weariness slipping from his bones. He takes a shaky step closer to Joe, Joe's arms coming up automatically to draw him back in against his chest.  
  
"Hi," Joe says, his breath warm beside Nick's ear.  
  
Nick's hand slides over the swell of Joe's head, over the scar where he bounced off a trampoline and into six stitches, down to the nape of his neck fitted perfectly in Nick's cupped hand. "Hi." Nick squeezes, lets go.   
  
Joe shoves his hat back on. He grabs Nick's bag, lying forgotten at his feet, and heaves it over his shoulder.   
  
"I can carry my own-" Nick starts, but Joe's playing chauffeur. He shakes his head firmly, pulls his cap down tighter on his head and cocks an expectant eyebrow. Nick caves to that eyebrow, to the pleased smile Joe gives him when he plays along. He's done a lot of dumber things for that smile.   
  
He jams his hands in his pockets, and shrugs a little sheepishly. Joe bumps into him, leaning in with his shoulder, smiling. And then the smile is gone as he gets back into character. Nick walks beside him, stealing looks at his profile from behind his sunglasses. He glances over his shoulder for photographers. He always looks for photographers at airports even though it's been two years since there was really a reason.   
  
Joe keeps it up all the way out to the car, putting Nick's bag in the trunk, opening the door for him. He makes Nick sit in the back. He calls Nick "Sir" some more. He points out New York landmarks Nick's seen a million times before. Nick sits behind him, watches the bit of his chin, his lips, that he can see in the rearview mirror.  
  
*  
  
Joe's apartment is less than he can afford. They may not be the Jonas Brothers anymore, but they're still millionaires. Nick has a very nice place in LA with a pool, and a maid, and three cars in the drive. Joe doesn't have to settle for a building without an elevator, Nick thinks, trying to catch his breath. Six flights doesn't seem like it should burn this badly in his lungs. Joe doesn't have to live in a shoebox. Or take the subway instead of hiring a driver. But Joe's playing the part of the struggling theater actor now, trying it on like another coat, another costume.   
  
"What do you think?" Joe says, tossing Nick's bag over onto the tiny kitchen counter, the only thing separating the kitchen from the living room. He strips off his hat and coat and gloves, toes off his shoes. Nick looks at the slanted hardwood floor, and the dusty radiator, and the worn couch, at the gas stove that looks like it time warped straight out of the 20s. Forget maids, Joe doesn't even have a dishwasher. Nick thinks he could probably lie down on the floor and touch both walls if he stretched out his arms over his head and pointed his toes.   
  
He looks at Joe, leaning back against the sink. His arms are braced behind him, white button-up shirt opened at the throat. His slick black pants are held up with a ridiculous giant smiley face belt buckle. His feet are bare, crossed at the ankle. The sunlight's coming in behind him, so bright all Nick can see is a little of his smile in shadow, his ears lit up, almost transparent.   
  
"It's perfect," Nick says.  
  
And when he looks again, it is. The stacks of scripts and books overflowing the book shelf in the corner, the little fern in the windowsill, the bright walls all yellows and orangey salmons and greeny-blues. Joe's running shoes are neatly lined up by the door. And Joe's favorite cereals are lined up underneath the microwave. The walls are covered with photographs Joe's taken, polaroids and black and white prints. There are scribbled post-it notes Joe's left himself everywhere. Nick can see the one with his flight number stuck to the bottom edge of the TV. He trails slowly past some of the pictures, recognizing a few of them, not recognizing others. It's sort of weird, being in this place that's so filled up with Joe, just Joe. Nick touches one black and white shot of himself he remembers Joe taking the last time he was in LA.   
  
"It's great, Joe." He startles when Joe is suddenly behind him, bare feet soundless against the floor. Joe drapes an arm over his shoulder, tugs him in close. "Of course it wouldn't hurt if you had an elevator," Nick says, raising a teasing eyebrow. Joe just smiles at him, presses his lips to Nick's temple. Nick closes his eyes, cramping up tight with everything he promised himself he wouldn't feel this time, with everything he put three thousand miles between them to keep from feeling.   
  
"Do you need to eat?" Joe turns him so they're face to face. Joe strokes the hair back from Nick's forehead, again, again. His eyes roam all over Nick's face like he's looking for something important in his mouth, in his eyes. Nick isn't sure if he's looking for weakness, symptoms of his disease, or something else.  
  
"I'm fine," Nick says. But Joe's already crowding up behind him, herding him into the kitchen with nudges and pressing hands. "Really," Nick says. "I checked it when we landed. I'm fine." But Joe's already got the refrigerator open. He looks over Nick's shoulder, hands braced on either side, Nick boxed in against the cold air and the surprisingly well stocked shelves. He shivers from the cold, or from the heat of Joe leaning in against his back. Joe reaches past him for a Diet Coke, his chest warm, his arm warm. He presses the cold can to the side of Nick's neck, laughing when Nick yelps and elbows him hard in protest. Joe hands him the Coke and pushes him away from the refrigerator, out of the kitchen. "Go watch TV or something," he says. "I'm making dinner."  
  
"You're making dinner?" Nick says. "By yourself?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Nick pulls the tab on his Coke. "You realize there are about 8,000 restaurants in this city that deliver, right? Maybe we should-"  
  
Joe holds up a hand, pinching his fingers closed in a shushing gesture. "Just let me work my magic."  
  
"Maybe I should help."   
  
"Like you can cook," Joe says.  
  
"At least I've never burned down anyone's house."  
  
"I didn't burn it _down_ ," Joe says. "I barely singed the curtains. I, like, hickory smoked them. People love it when things are hickory smoked."  
  
Nick makes a skeptical face.   
  
"Come on," Joe says. "This is supposed to be a surprise. A special surprise dinner to welcome you ho- Here," Joe says. "To the big city. So shut your fat mouth and go watch TV, okay? You're ruining it."  
  
Nick sighs heavily, long-sufferingly, but he reaches over and hooks his finger in Joe's shirt pocket, tugs a little to let Joe know he's kidding. He falls back onto the couch, digging between the cushions for the remote.  
  
"Dude," Joe says. "How am I supposed to do my secret preparations and ingredients and stuff if you're sitting right there? Go watch the one in the bedroom."  
  
"Joe, it's dinner. It's not industrial espionage. I'm not going to sell your secret ingredients to KFC."  
  
"Can't risk it," Joe says, hovering and making shooing motions. "Sorry, man." He extends his hand, and Nick thinks about just lying down on the couch and refusing to move.   
  
"You really don't have to-" Nick says, waving his hand vaguely. "All this. I just wanted-" To see you. "I didn't come for the food," he says. But he takes Joe's hand, lets Joe heave him up and steer him down the narrow hall. Joe shoves him into one of the rooms and shuts the door behind him.   
  
"Don't come out," he yells.  
  
Joe's bedroom is mostly bed. There's a little table and a little closet and a little television, but mostly there's a really soft looking, thick mattress propped up on boards or something with drawers underneath it, crammed in against the walls just barely fitting with no space to spare on either side. Nick peeks in Joe's closet, touches the rack of scarves and belts hanging on the inside of the door, touches a pink t-shirt Joe's been wearing since what feels like the dawn of time. He opens one of Joe's drawers. Joe has what seems like an unreasonable number of watches.  
  
He looks out the window at the street below, watches a couple cars go by, a woman walking her dog. He puts his Coke can down on the little table and crawls up onto the mattress. The comforter is fluffy, and the mattress is just as soft as it looked, and there are a bunch of pillows, and it's really nice. Really nice. Nick sinks down into the pillows. He turns on the TV, but he's not looking at it. He's looking at the ceiling, tracing the fine network of cracks in the old plaster, trying to find shapes in it. He can smell Joe on the pillows, on the sheets. He closes his eyes and just breathes, feeling like he can finally really get a full breath in his lungs for the first time in a long time. His eyes drift shut, and he's not sleeping but he's right on the edge of it, feeling sort of floaty and upside down like he has to think about it to remember which way his head is pointing.   
  
He's so tired, but it feels different now than it does when he's lying in his bed in LA watching the clock tick over one more minute closer to the morning. When he's pacing and dictating notes to give to his assistant tomorrow. When he's pounding out tentative melodies that go nowhere on the piano. Tired when he's in LA feels like something he can't shake. But right now he feels like he could actually sleep. It's the kind of tired that feels like maybe he could wake up tomorrow and not be. Like maybe in the morning he could just feel _better_.   
  
He doesn't open his eyes when he hears Joe open the door, when he feels Joe stripping Nick's shoes off his feet, when he feels Joe's weight dip the mattress down. Joe shifts around next to him, reaching out and touching Nick's hand, tapping at it with his fingers before he picks it up off the comforter and bounces Nick's palm against his own. Nick cracks his eyes open.  
  
"Are you asleep?" Joe says. He keeps bouncing Nick's hand, their palms slapping together softly and then flying apart. Nick lets him, keeping his arm loose.  
  
Nick thinks of about five sarcastic responses, but he just shakes his head no.  
  
"I brought you your dinner," Joe says.  
  
Nick notices the big silver tray on the little table. He looks at it more closely, his head cocked. "What-" he starts. "Is that a room service tray from The Four Seasons?"   
  
"Good eye," Joe says, smiling. He grabs the tray, and plops it down on the bed between them.   
  
Nick lifts up the big silver lid warily. "Pecan and cinnamon french toast?" Nick looks at Joe, then back down at the tray. "Rosemary potatoes?" Nick looks from the coconut shrimp they'd had in Toronto to the barbeque chicken they'd had in Dallas to the lamb saltimbocca they'd ordered in Buenos Aires just because Joe thought saltimbocca was a fun word to say. It's practically a retrospective of their last world tour in room service form. There are even napkins from The Ritz, and Nick recognizes the forks from The Sutton.  
  
He looks at Joe, shaking his head, feeling kind of floaty and upside down again even though his eyes are open. Joe nudges the tray over closer to him, looks up at Nick from underneath his eyelashes. He taps Nick on the back of his hand with his index finger, strokes a little. He looks up again like he's thinking about saying something, but then he grabs one of the shrimp and crams it in his mouth instead.   
  
"This is-" Nick shakes his head. Who even thinks of something like this? It must have cost a fortune, and it's not like Joe can't afford it, but the guy doesn't even have a dishwasher and he dropped who knows how much just to- Just for- Nick looks down at his hands, feeling the back of his neck heat up, feeling the smile grow on his lips.  
  
"I know," Joe grins.   
  
"How did you even get this stuff?"   
  
"Well, Nick. A lot of times if you give people money, they give you stuff in return. Like food or clothes or room service trays. They have these things called stores too-"  
  
Nick pushes him impatiently, breaking off his monologue. "Just eat something, jerk." Nick takes one of the plates, settles himself more firmly against the pillows. Joe settles in next to him, the two of them bumping elbows when Nick tries to cut a little of the lamb with his plate awkwardly balanced on his knees. He abandons the lamb and sticks to the French toast, using his fingers, getting them sticky with syrup. Joe keeps bumping him with his elbow anyway, just nudging at him every now and then, pushing against Nick's arm, against his ribs. Nick likes the way Joe smiles every time he nudges Joe back.  
  
It's so familiar, sitting on a bed with Joe, watching TV and eating hotel room service, ignoring the existence of silverware. It could be any of a hundred nights they spent on the road.   
  
It hurts all of a sudden, deep in Nick's chest, like pressing on a bruise, pulling the ache up sharp and fresh. He blinks at the television blankly and aches.  
  
"What is it?" Joe says. Nick watches his face fall. "You don’t like it."  
  
"No." Nick nudges into Joe with his elbow hard, not really nudging after all, just kind of leaning into Joe's side. "It's amazing. I just-" He looks down at his hands, presses his syrupy fingers together and then apart, feeling the way they stick. "I miss it."   
  
Joe's hand is warm against the back of his neck, squeezing. Joe uses his curled hand to pull Nick over into him. Nick juggles his plate, tries to keep from spilling anything. Joe snags the plate out of his lap and crams it into the window sill, knocking over little bottles of contact solution and fancy eye cream. "I miss _you_ ," Joe says as he winds his arm around Nick's waist and pulls him in against Joe's hip.  
  
"That too," Nick says. They're closing in fast on the part where Nick pulls away, where he pushes out from under Joe's arm, where he fights. It's always been Nick's job to draw the line.   
  
He wonders what would happen if he didn't.   
  
Joe's fingers slide up through Nick's hair, up from his neck to the crown of his head, carding through Nick's curls. Nick slips farther down the pillows, farther into Joe's side, until his head is on Joe's shoulder. Joe's cheek touches down on the top of Nick's head. "Nick?" Joe whispers. Nick closes his eyes, the murmur of the television lulling him, the soft rise and fall of Joe's breathing. Nick wonders if he's really the only thing holding them apart, that little bit apart that makes what they are okay, not wrong. Joe's fingers stroke against the curve of Nick's hip, and Nick shudders a little into Joe. He wants Joe to dig his fingers in, dig bruises from Nick's skin and touch him, keep touching him. He wants it so much he feels fear swell up slowly under the heaviness of his exhaustion.   
  
"Nick," Joe says again, softer. Nick keeps his eyes closed and his breathing slow, steady. He lies still under the fear and the want and the drowsy weight of fatigue and pretends until it's not a lie anymore, until he sinks into sleep.  
  
*  
  
Nick sleeps for 16 hours straight, which he hasn't done since, well… Ever probably. He wakes up feeling kind of sore, kind of grubby and disoriented from having slept in his clothes. Joe's already gone; but there's a purple Post-It note stuck to his pillow. Nick plucks it up and reads Joe's messy scrawl. "Final dress rehearsal," it says. "Come find me if you get bored." And then the address for the theater. Opening night is tomorrow; the excuse for Nick's visit. Nick pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and sticks the Post-It inside.   
  
The shower takes the stiffness from his muscles, the grime of travel and too long in one shirt, from his skin. There are tiny shampoo bottles from The Baccarat and towels from The Plaza. When he steps out of the shower, there's a smiley face on the mirror showing through the steam. It's wearing glasses. Nick gives it a mustache. He uses Joe's aftershave instead of digging his own out of his bag.   
  
He checks his levels and makes himself oatmeal in Joe's microwave. His phone sits silently on the counter next to him. He tucks it in his pocket without turning it on, like he's not ignoring his responsibilities if he has it with him.   
  
*  
  
The theater is off Broadway but not as far off as Nick thought it might be. Rehearsals are winding down by the time he gets there. Nick looks for Joe backstage, finds him clustered with a bunch of the actors, halfway between taking off his costume and putting on his street clothes. Everyone chatters loudly, popping in and out of dressing rooms. Joe's unwinding a scarf from some guy's neck while a pretty dark-haired girl pulls off her false eyelashes and talks to him about authorial intent. She plops her wig onto Joe's head, and it turns out she's not that dark-haired really. Joe laughs and settles the wig more firmly on his head, the black bob brushing against the line of his jaw. He looks up through thick bangs and sees Nick hovering at the end of the hall.  
  
"Nick!" Joe says, waving him closer. Nick pushes through the crowd, ducking under half a song and slipping around a half-hearted swordfight.   
  
"Everybody!" Joe yells over the noise. "This is my brother, Nick."  
  
"Hi, Nick!" Everybody who can be bothered yells back.  
  
"He's a rock star," Joe says.  
  
"Joe." There's a little bit of warning in it. Nick juts his chin, insistent.   
  
"Fine." Joe relents. "He's a hot shot record producer. For now." He turns to scarf guy. "And no, Scott. He doesn't want to hear your demo." He turns to the girl whose real hair is not that dark. "And no, Jamie. He doesn't want a blowjob."  
  
Nick's eyebrows rise.  
  
"Did I offer?" Jamie says. She blatantly looks Nick over from head to toe, taking her time, eyes narrowed. She ducks her head in Joe's direction, her shoulder rising a little. "I probably would have offered," she admits.  
  
Joe gives an "And you doubted me?" eye roll.   
  
"I might still offer," Scott says, pressing a kiss to the side of Joe's head. "Do you want a blowjob?" he asks Nick sweetly, batting dark eyelashes.   
  
The word blowjob doesn't make Nick blush like it used to back before he'd ever actually had one, and it's not the first time a guy's hit on him. But he can feel Joe looking at him, and when he sneaks a glance, Joe's got his head cocked like he's curious to see what the answer will be. Nick can feel the back of his neck heating up a little, his ears flushing. The sarcastic response dries up in his throat, leaving him blank. Joe elbows Scott backwards, shaking his head.   
  
"That's my little brother, man," he says. Scott shrugs, smiling, unruffled.  
  
"And I saw him first," Jamie says. She looks at Nick again, her lips twisted up in the tease, enough intensity in her eyes to tell him she's kind of not kidding. She looks at him like she's making an offer, and he's relieved because this feels familiar. He knows what to do with this. He meets her eyes and smirks, makes it a little dirty, dirty enough that there's pink on her cheeks.  
  
Joe laughs. His thumb flicks over the top of Nick's overheated ear. "My little brother," he says. It sounds different this time, kind of proud. Joe looks at Nick, smiling at him like he's the best present Joe's ever gotten. He drapes his arm over Nick's neck, pulling Nick closer. Joe looks at Jamie, throws a glance over his shoulder at Scott. "And you can't have him," he sing-songs. He leans in close, his wig brushing tickly against Nick's neck. His fingers curl on Nick's shoulder. He presses his smile into the side of Nick's head.   
  
It used to be easy to push him away, to laugh and wiggle out from under his arm. It's harder now. Nick knows he should take that step back. Knows Joe's expecting it even. But he sags into Joe a little instead, wanting the heat of his skin, the familiar circle of his arm. Wanting it so much more than he ever did when Joe was always just an outstretched arm away. He tilts his head into Joe's. It's just- It's just harder now. To step away.  
  
*  
  
  
It's cold out, crisp fall air turning sharp with an every now and then gust of wind, but Joe wants to walk. And Nick wants to feel Joe's arm bumping into his, the back of his hand brushing against Nick's fingers, his hip colliding with Nick's as he wanders into Nick's space too often to be an accident. So Nick buys a hat and a pair of gloves in one of the little hipster shops they walk past, and trails along in Joe's wake like the tail of a kite. Lets Joe drag him to what he swears is the best bakery in the city, and the gallery that's showing some paintings a friend of Joe's did. They look in store windows, and half of everything they say to each other is "Do you remember when?" Just touching their tongues to those memories like they're double-checking that they're still in the same place.   
  
Nick laughs at Joe's jokes maybe a little harder than they deserve, but everything seems funnier when he can see Joe's face, funnier than it does over the phone. Nick leans into the wind, his eyes watering a little in the cold, his cheeks numb as the light fades, the streetlights coming on all around them. He can't quite tell if Joe's planned this walk, or if they're just wandering. It feels too much like a tour to be entirely unplanned.   
  
"I'm thinking about maybe getting a dog," Joe says as they drift past a dog park. He changes his mind about which kind he wants every time a new dog walks by.   
  
"Where are you going to fit a dog in your shoebox?" Nick says. "You'd be better off with a hamster or something."   
  
"I've been thinking of moving to a bigger place anyway."   
  
Nick raises an eyebrow. "Tired of slumming it or-"  
  
"I'm not slumming it," Joe says. "My place is awesome. But you know- It's kind of a one person place, and I was thinking- More space or- I don't know." He looks around, his hands tucked in under his arms, shoulders hunched in the cold. "This seems like a nice neighborhood, right?"  
  
He says it really casually, like way too casually actually. And now Nick is pretty sure that they aren't just walking where their feet take them, that Joe is trying to- Something. Nick has no idea what exactly. Like if he wants to move here, or get a roommate or whatever, then it's not really- It's not like it's Nick's place to weigh in or whatever. It's not like it has anything to do with Nick really. "Sure," he says. "It's a great neighborhood."  
  
"It's like, friendly," Joe says. "Like arty. But not pretentious. Not like that fake boho stuff."  
  
"Yeah, I guess."   
  
Joe tilts his head down toward his shoes, looking up at Nick. "It's nice, right?" he says. "You like it here?"  
  
Nick tries to picture what Joe's new apartment will look like, tries to put all his pictures on the walls, and his pink shirt in the closet, and decide what kind of tile will be in the bathroom. He can't figure out where the roommate's stuff will go. He puts an obnoxious poster of a half naked girl in the corner of the living room. He thinks Joe's phantom roommate will probably be the kind of douche who thinks boobs count as decorating. He forces a smile. "It's a great idea," he says. "Maybe you can even find a building with an elevator."   
  
Joe laughs. "It's a couple flights of stairs, not the Tour de France. Lounging around in the sun by the pool all day has obviously made you soft." Nick shakes his head, lips twisting. Joe pokes at Nick's face roughly with his fingers. It feels weird, blunt against Nick's numb cheeks. "Who am I kidding? You never leave the studio do you, pale face?"   
  
Nick rolls his eyes. "Not once, not ever."  
  
"Just wasting away behind a soundboard until you can barely drag yourself up a flight of stairs." Joe makes a concerned face, patting Nick's back soothingly. "Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? I mean, we've been walking for _several_ blocks."  
  
Nick glances at his watch. "We've been walking for like, three hours, but yeah. Whatever."  
  
Joe grabs Nick's wrist and turns his arm so he can see the watch too. His fingers are cold against the underside of Nick's wrist. Nick shivers, sweat prickling suddenly on his skin, cheeks hot. "Hungry yet?" Joe says.   
  
He shoves at Nick's watch with his thumb, turning it around on Nick's wrist so the face is underneath. He keeps pushing it, his fingers tight on Nick's wrist as it slips all the way back around. Nick watches the way the streetlights throw shadows against Joe's lips. "I could eat," he says.  
  
*  
  
The subway feels damp, warmer, like a whole different climate as they clatter down the stairs. "You couldn't spring for a cab?" Nick says, teasing.   
  
Joe throws his arms out wide, almost smacking a guy in a suit as he hurries past them down the stairs. "This is the New York subway," Joe says. "It's like the ninth wonder of the world. I would never deprive you of the experience."  
  
"And I appreciate it, really." Nick grimaces. "But I have experienced the smell of urine before. Just so you know."   
  
They're only halfway down the stairs when they hear the thundering of the train, the screech of brakes. Joe bounds down the rest of the steps, taking them two at a time. Nick hustles to keep up, the slick soles of his shoes sliding on the concrete. Joe's waiting for him when he turns the corner to the platform, the train already pulling away.  
  
"So close," Joe says, kicking idly at the column next to him. He hunches his shoulders up, trying to put his hands into his pockets before remembering that his stupid hipster jacket has stupid fake pockets. He wrinkles his nose up at Nick, grabs him by the collar and hauls him in close, turns him with a push. He settles his chin in the curve of Nick's shoulder, and jams his hands in Nick's coat pockets without even asking.   
  
"Hey," Nick says. "Get your own."  
  
"Come on," Joe says. The soft, short bristles of his hair rub against Nick's cheek. He can feel the rise of Joe's chest against his back, the warmth of him seeping through Nick's coat. "You have gloves."  
  
"I fail to see how that's relevant."  
  
"So you don't need your pockets," Joe says like that's obvious. He digs his chin in sharp against Nick's shoulder. "You really won't even share your pockets, Nick? When I'm so cold." He snuggles in closer, solid at Nick's back, deliberately chattering his teeth next to Nick's ear.   
  
"It's not even that cold down here," Nick protests weakly. He can feel Joe's hands through Nick's coat, balled up against his hips. Joe rubs his cold nose against the side of Nick's neck, and Nick jerks, startled. Joe laughs. Nick feels it rumble against his back, soft in his ear. He feels surrounded, a little claustrophobic maybe, throat tight, heart thudding.   
  
He wraps one hand around Joe's forearm, pulling to dislodge him. Joe unballs his fist, spreading his hand, grabbing onto Nick through layers of fabric with strong fingers. Nick can feel them dig in rough through his shirt, catching the waistband of his pants, waking his skin up underneath. Waking his dick up with a sluggish twist of deep down heat.  
  
Nick closes his eyes, his hand tight on Joe's wrist. Joe nuzzles into Nick's jaw. "You'll really like this place," he says sort of slow and sleepy. His hips nudge into Nick a little from behind.   
  
"What place?" Nick says kind of breathlessly.  
  
"The restaurant?" Joe says, amused. His chin moves against Nick's shoulder every time he talks. "That we're going to right now? Is any of this ringing any bells?"  
  
"Oh," Nick says. "Yeah." His whole body feels rigid with how hard he's fighting not to lean back into the curve of Joe's chest, into the press of Joe's hips. He wants to just- Lean. "As long as it's not some stupid theme restaurant."  
  
Joe's mouth falls open. Nick feels it beside his ear. "Are you telling me you didn't like that place with the ninjas?" His balled fist pounds lightly into Nick's ribs, shifting Nick's coat. "Don't forget, you're under oath."  
  
Nick rolls his eyes. "That's not how perjury works."  
  
"Admit it," Joe says, nudging deliberately into the back of Nick's neck with his cold nose. "You loved that place. They have ninja waiters. Don't even pretend it's not your favorite place."  
  
"It's not my favorite place."  
  
"Fine, your second favorite place. In the whole world."  
  
The platform is filling up with people, the space around them getting smaller. Somehow it makes Joe feel like he's even closer, like the heat of him is hotter, like it's swelling up under Nick's skin, a flush of embarrassment all twisted up with the deep stab need. Nick can feel himself go sweaty, too hot. He darts a little look over his shoulder. "I'm a grown man, Joe."  
  
"You can never be too old for ninjas, dude."  
  
"Are you taking me to the ninja restaurant, Joe?"  
  
"No," Joe says, smiling. His fingers brush over Nick's stomach inside Nick's pocket, like a secret. "You can keep guessing if you want."  
  
"Pirates?" Nick says.  
  
Joe shakes his head.  
  
"One of those places where you solve a murder mystery?"  
  
"No," Joe says. "But that would be awesome. We're definitely doing that next time." The rumble of the train starts up, the light bright as it thunders up to the platform. Joe doesn't take his hands out of Nick's pockets, shoving up behind him, their legs getting a little tangled together as they push into the crush of people rushing to get on the train.   
  
Nick doesn't shove him off until two seats open up next to each other a few stops later.  
  
*  
  
The restaurant isn't what Nick thought it would be. It's like, a grown-up restaurant. No one is wearing any costumes and there aren't any crayons on the table and Nick doesn't even see pizza on the menu. It's nice, but it doesn't feel trendy in that overly conscious way that says the food will be beyond overpriced and the paparazzi will be parked outside. It's just understated brick, and candlelight, and very tiny tables, and chairs that look like they were picked because they're nice to sit on instead of because they're nice to look at. There's a piano over in the corner with a spotlight on the empty bench beside it.  
  
Nick looks at his menu. He looks at the couple a few tables over, leaning close to each other over the candle in the middle of their table, hovering on the edge of a kiss. The tables are really extra small. Joe's knee brushes against his when Joe shifts his feet. Nick feels kind of unsettled, his toe tapping restlessly. He just thought there would be jousting or hot dogs or _something_. It feels weird that there's not jousting.  
  
"They have a really good steak," Joe says. "And check it out. Sugar free desserts." He smiles at Nick, soft and golden in the candlelight. Nick looks back down at his menu, flustered. He reads over and over the description of the sesame crusted tuna. Joe steps lightly on Nick's toe under the table, a quick tap-tap of his foot to make him look up. When Nick does, Joe's got his eyebrows raised in a way that asks, "You okay?"   
  
Nick nods, holding tight to the menu.   
  
"You just seem a little quiet," Joe says.  
  
"It's not what I expected." He shakes his head when Joe's eyes narrow. "No, it's really nice. It's-" Romantic. "Nice," he says again. He looks back down at the menu to hide the flush he can feel on his face. He probably has the bit about the ginger cream memorized by now.  
  
"I always take you nice places," Joe says.  
  
"You definitely take me, um-" Nick scrunches his forehead up. "Places." Joe frowns at him, his head tilted, waiting. "You take me fun places," Nick corrects himself. He leans forward and darts his eyes to the right and left like he's checking for eavesdroppers before whispering over the top of his menu. "I liked the ninjas."   
  
Joe grins and leans forward too, whispers "I knew it." They're both leaning in and seriously, these tables are like the size of a postage stamp, and Joe is right there. Just _there_ , just _looking_ at him. Nick watches the way the candlelight flickers against Joe's mouth, wants to touch his thumb to the swoop of Joe's bottom lip. He sits back in his chair, grabbing desperately for his water glass.   
  
"Fun places can be nice places too," Joe says, still leaning in. "This is fun, right?" He taps his foot down on Nick's toe again, an anxious little nudge.  
  
"It's awesome."  
  
"Wait 'til you taste the food," Joe says, sprawling back in his seat, satisfied. His legs stretch out, bumping up against Nick's. "I'm about to blow your mind. With like, savory flavor bombs. Just exploding in your head. Mouth. Area." He motions vaguely toward his face and nods.   
  
Nick snorts. Joe smiles at him, wide grin so familiar on his lips. Nick smiles back helplessly. "You're so lame," he says. "I don't know anyone else as lame as you."   
  
Joe looks pleased.  
  
*  
  
It's late. It's really late, and Nick feels a little groggy, heavy with too much good food. He watches Joe's hands glide through a story he's telling about this time he and Scott hung out with the penguins at the Central Park Zoo. He has a tiny stain on the collar of his shirt from the coffee or maybe the super fancy pot roast he ordered. Or maybe it's from before, and Nick just hadn't noticed it. Nick watches his adam's apple bob. There's a little dark stubble on his throat. His leg is pressed up against Nick's under the table. It jiggles whenever his hand gets especially wiggly, whenever his smile gets especially wide. Nick presses his knee tighter to Joe's leg. Joe's story trails off, his hand slipping under the table. His fingers brush lightly over the top of Nick's knee, curling softly, holding on when Nick doesn't jerk away. His head cocks, smile going gentle, so sweet it wakes Nick up with a sudden uneasy rush, his heart beating painfully hard against his throat.   
  
"Anything else?" the waiter asks. Joe's hand slips off Nick's knee. It's been a while since the slice of cheesecake they shared, but Joe doesn't ask for the check. He orders another cup of coffee like he's planning to be here all night.   
  
"Shouldn't we-" Nick says. "I mean, tomorrow's your big opening night. We should-"  
  
"We're fine," Joe says. He reaches over and taps the back of Nick's hand with his fingers, turns Nick's hand over on the table.  
  
"You don't need to prepare or something?" Nick moves his free hand down in front of his face, pouting dramatically.   
  
"We've been in rehearsals for months." Joe presses each of Nick's fingertips down into the table, one by one. "If I'm not prepared by now, I don't think there's much I can do about it at this point."  
  
"Are you nervous?" Nick asks, curling his hand up into a fist, tucking his fingers away.  
  
Joe sits back, smoothes his hand over his thigh. "I've performed in front of 80,000. I think I can handle it." He grins cockily, but he's cracking the knuckles on his left hand.  
  
Nick smiles at him. "No matter what happens it can be worse than forgetting the words to _Superstition_ with Stevie Wonder playing right next to you."  
  
"Or falling down in front of a few million television viewers," Joe grins.  
  
"Or spelling your own name wrong when you're signing an autograph."  
  
"Or the paparazzi catching you coming out of a bar." Joe shakes his head. "Goddamn David Henrie."  
  
Nick grins. "Could have been worse. Could have been naked pics."  
  
"Yes, it could have." Joe lifts an eyebrow, his lips thinning into a mostly hidden smile.  
  
Nick stares. "Please tell me there aren't naked pictures of you actually in existence."  
  
"Not really." Joe's smile is slowly turning into more of a smirk. "You can't even tell it's me."  
  
Nick feels like his eyebrows are trying to climb all the way around to the back of his head. "I'm-" He shakes his head. "What-" There's a smattering of enthusiastic applause, and Joe looks over his shoulder. A dark-haired woman sits down gracefully at the piano. Joe grins and scoots his chair over to Nick's side of the table so he can see her without straining. "I'm about to blow your mind again," he whispers. "Wait until you hear this."  
  
"Wait a second," Nick hisses. "You can't just say naked pictures and then not-"   
  
The woman starts to say something, and Joe makes shushing gestures with his hands. Nick shuts his mouth with a snap, but he doesn't really hear a word. He can tell whatever she said must have been charming by how Joe chuckles appreciatively. She starts to play, her hands tripping lightly over the keys. She's good, but-  
  
"Seriously," Nick leans over to whisper next to Joe's ear. "What do you mean you-"   
  
"Shhhh." Joe puts an insistent finger up to his lips. "Just listen." He drapes his arm over the back of Nick's chair, his body pressed close to Nick, and he's so warm, and his hand is on Nick's arm, and Nick can't stop thinking about him naked, and he's pretty sure Joe did this on purpose because Joe is an _asshole_. Joe reaches between them to pinch at Nick's ribs, his arm drawing tight around Nick's shoulder to keep Nick from jerking away. "Pay attention," he mouths, his eyes narrowed. He nods his head toward the girl.  
  
Nick rubs at the fading sting on his skin, frowning. He tries, he really does. But he can't- It's like he can't quite hear it, like he can't make the notes connect up in his head through how hard he's trying to figure out when Joe would have taken it and who was holding the camera or was it in the mirror and why would Joe and what if the Internet and what else hasn't Joe told- Nick pats at Joe's leg to get his attention, insistent.   
  
Joe rolls his eyes and leans in as close as he can. Nick feels like he's so tense his shoulders are aching, like he's being wrung out like a towel. "It wasn't just me." Joe's mouth barely moves, breath soft on Nick's skin as he whispers, "It was for an art project thing, one of my friends- It's not a big deal."  
  
Nick's can feel his face wrinkle up in disapproval, his hand tightening on Joe's leg a little. "Did you learn nothing from Vanessa Hudgens?" he mouths, almost soundless.  
  
"You can't even see my face," Joe mouths back. He digs his fingers into Nick's curls casually, combing his hand through Nick's hair. "Who would even care at this point? It's not like I still have a contract with a morals clause."  
  
"I know, but-"  
  
"Nick," Joe says. "We'll talk about it later, okay? You can see it if you want. But right now, can you just- Listen?" He stares at Nick, big-eyed and serious. "I'm trying to show you something awesome."  
  
Nick swallows, forces himself to relax the tight grip he has on Joe's thigh, to sit back in his chair. "Okay."  
  
Joe leans in and just barely touches his forehead to Nick's. Joe smiles. He doesn't take his hand out of Nick's hair, fingers absently curling at the nape of Nick's neck.   
  
The girl is really good. Better than good. Her voice is smooth and sweet and sad, and she plays the piano with quick skillful fingers, leaning into it like she's putting every bit of her into every note. Nick closes his eyes and forces himself to just hear her. Hear how good she is, let it tug at him. The light slide of Joe's fingers over his skin, through his hair, still pulls deeper. Nick presses himself closer against Joe's side, holds on to Joe's thigh.  
  
*  
  
Nick sways into Joe as the train pulls away from another station. Joe's still talking about the girl at the restaurant, his face bright and happy. He breaks into bits and pieces of song, his so familiar voice sliding over the unfamiliar music. Nick kicks his feet, stretches his fingers out on the plastic between their seats to brush against Joe's hand. He sings softly, fills in the harmonies on the ones he can remember.   
  
*  
  
"Do you want me to go sleep on the couch?" Joe says with a huff. He uncurls his arm from around Nick's waist and flops onto his back. Nick frowns and punches the pillow underneath his head, plumping it up with angry smacks of his fist.  
  
"What are you talking about?" he says irritably.  
  
"You keep wiggling around."  
  
"I do not."  
  
"You've kicked me four times."  
  
"I'm trying to get comfortable."  
  
"Would it help you get comfortable," Joe enunciates broadly, "if I go sleep on the couch?"  
  
Nick turns so he's facing Joe, and lifts up so he can flip his pillow over again. "I don't know," he says, sounding more sullen than he wanted to. He's old enough to know better, to not take a bad mood out on Joe when it's not his fault. Except- It kind of _is_ Joe's fault, really. Joe's the one who keeps touching him, keeps breathing on the back of his neck. Joe's legs are the ones taking up all the space, Joe's knees prodding into him all bony and bent. Joe's toes are the ones tangling with his feet at the end of the bed, moving warm and slow. And it's Joe's fault he still keeps- He can't stop thinking about stupid naked pictures. His dick aches, half hard, and he wants to jerk off but he doesn't want to do it in Joe's bathroom when he's warm from Joe's bed, from Joe's skin. He thumps his head down hard in the middle of the pillow, yanking on the covers restlessly.   
  
"Okay," Joe says, grabbing his pillow and starting to scoot down toward the foot of the bed.   
  
Nick grabs Joe's arm, pulling him back. "It's not that. I'm just jittery or something."  
  
Joe shifts around, turning so he's facing Nick. "What are you freaking about?" Nick can see Joe watching him, eyes glittery in the dark. "I'm the one who has a show tomorrow. I should be the one who's all uptight."  
  
"I don’t know," Nick lies. He grits his teeth, bites down on all the words he doesn't ever let himself say, tries not to ever let himself think. He doesn't have to say them. He's got it under control. "You know how I- Sometimes I just can't sleep." He sits up, scrubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand. "You sleep. I'll go watch TV until I settle down."  
  
"You sure?" Joe says. He props himself up on one elbow, staring in the dark. "I mean, you're sure you're okay?"  
  
"Course." Nick leans over and pushes at Joe's face, digs an elbow into his ribs on his way past. "Get your beauty rest." He grins. "You seriously need it."  
  
Joe throws his pillow at him as Nick climbs down off the bed.  
  
*  
  
Nick tries to watch TV, something really boring that'll put him to sleep. But his shoulders feel painfully tight, and his head hurts, and his dick aches. He can't keep still. His skin feels kind of itchy, too small. He wanders around Joe's tiny kitchen restlessly, trying to open and close the cabinet doors silently. Pouring himself a glass of water. Testing his levels just for something to do. He starts rifling through the books piled up in the living room, poking through a stack of photographs. He doesn't quite know what he's looking for until he flips open a book with an oversized postcard stuck inside it. It has some naked people on it, and he feels a sharp stab of triumph. A little of the tension goes out of his shoulders.  
  
There are three girls in the picture, and three guys. All of them are standing in a row, slouching casually, leaning into each other, touching each other. One guy has his hand spread wide over the naked stomach of the girl beside him. The other pair of girls press into each other, their bodies curved close, breasts bare, the top of the picture cutting off the kiss right in the middle of their chins. The picture cuts off everyone's head, but it's still really obvious that Joe is the one on the far left. He has his back to the camera. The bottom of the picture slices off abruptly midway through the curves of his ass. The guy next to him in the picture is facing the camera. He's leaning into Joe, their shoulders, their hips overlapping. His hand is brushing Joe's waist, his fingers stretching down over Joe's hip. You can see just the hint of his lips touching Joe's jaw before the picture cuts off.   
  
"See," Joe says behind him. Nick jumps in surprise, heart pounding, fists half raised defensively. "Totally anonymous."  
  
Nick tries to remember how to breath. He taps the guy on the left side of the picture, the one that's obviously Joe, right in the center of his naked back.   
  
"Okay," Joe concedes. "Mostly anonymous."   
  
"You almost gave me a heart attack," Nick says shakily.  
  
Joe dips his head. "You could have just asked. I would have shown it to you."  
  
"I found it accidentally," Nick says, still looking at it. He feels kind of sick, all snarled up inside, tangled like a knot pulling tighter. Joe raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Anyway, I thought you were supposed to be sleeping."  
  
"I couldn't get back to sleep." Joe shoves Nick's shoulder. "I blame you completely."  
  
Nick frowns down at the picture, at the way the guy's fingers press against Joe's skin. Nick puts his thumb over the place where the guy's hand touches Joe. "Why would you want to do- This?"   
  
"It was for a friend. I told you, it was an art project." Nick turns the picture over so it's face down on the little stack of books before he looks at Joe. Joe looks down at the back of the picture, then up at Nick. His eyes narrow. "You can barely even see anything. It's like PG-13 or something." He sounds defensive, like he thinks Nick is judging. But it's not- Nick just can't look at it. He can't look at Joe and look at that at the same time. It makes him feel too- He looks over at the clock on the microwave and waits for the numbers to turn. He's not going to ask. He will not do it. He will _not_ -  
  
"Who's the other guy?" Nick says. "With you."  
  
Joe cocks his head, a little smile suddenly playing over his lips. Like he gets it now. Like he can see right through to exactly how pathetic Nick is. He launches himself at Nick, rocking him backward onto the floor. Nick grunts as the floor smacks into his back. Joe grins down at him. "That was Scott. You met him." Nick frowns, shoving at Joe with his arms. Joe grabs for his wrists, pushes them into the floor beside Nick's head. "A couple other people from the play are in it too." He's still smiling, huge and delighted. He rocks a little, just testing, and his grin gets even bigger when he nudges into Nick's hard dick.  
  
Nick blushes, squirming against Joe's grip. "Come on," he says. It comes out less forceful than he meant for it to.  
  
Joe laughs, his grip tight. "It was for a class," Joe says. "It got graded and everything." He leans down over Nick, his smiling mouth close. He whispers right in Nick's ear. "What grade would you give it?"  
  
"The whole thing or just your ass?" Nick sneers.  
  
Joe's still smiling. "Just my ass."  
  
Nick wrinkles up his forehead like he's really thinking about it. "B minus," he says finally.  
  
Joe squawks indignantly, and now Nick's laughing. Joe's eyes narrow and he shoves down, jostling against Nick's hard-on. Nick's laughter cuts off abruptly on a gasp. It gets quiet after that, a deep, thick quiet. Joe lets go of Nick's wrists, propping himself up with his hands pressed flat to the ground on either side of Nick's shoulders. Nick stares up at Joe, throat tight with wanting. Joe looks back at him for a long time, looks at his mouth, his tongue flicking hungrily out over his own lip. Nick can hear him breathing, a little ragged in the silence. Joe curls his fingers just under the curve of Nick's chin, his thumb coming up to touch the corner of Nick's mouth. And Nick thinks, "Just _take it_." But Joe's still looking, still waiting. For permission or- And Nick doesn't want to do it anymore. Be the one who says no. He can taste the yes on his tongue. But he can't- He _can't_ \-   
  
"Come on," he says, his voice going gruff. "Get off me."  
  
And Joe does.

*  
  
Joe's gone again when Nick wakes up the next morning. The Post-It note on his pillow says, "Hunting and Gathering." Nick squints at it blearily. He thinks about how he should probably check his messages. He takes a quick shower instead, not lingering under the hot water.  
  
Joe's in the kitchen when Nick comes out of the bathroom. There's a gigantic mountain of food on the table. Fresh baked bagels and muffins and croissants. McDonald's hash browns and an Egg McMuffin. Something greasy with bacon exploding out of it. Some oranges. A random grapefruit. And like four different Starbucks cups. It's a lot. It's kind of too much.  
  
"What _is_ all this?" Nick says.  
  
"Breakfast," Joe says, then corrects himself. "Brunch? Is this a trick question?"   
  
"This is too much."   
  
"I didn't know if you wanted iced or hot." Joe holds up two of the coffees and raises his eyebrows. Nick gives him an incredulous look. He puts the coffees back down and shrugs. "You don't have to eat all of it."  
  
"Seriously," Nick says. "What are you doing with all this?"  
  
Joe rolls one of the oranges on the counter, not looking up when he says, "It's just breakfast."  
  
"I'm not even talking about _this_ ," Nick says. "I mean, _everything_. You got actual rosemary potatoes from The Four Seasons. It's just- That's pretty grand as gestures go."  
  
Joe looks up, still rolling the orange absently back and forth. "I haven't seen you in months, Nick. I want you to have a good visit."  
  
"But you don't have to- Take me out," Nick says. "Or do all this-" He waves vaguely at the table. "Stuff. I don't need any of it."  
  
"I want to do stuff for you though," Joe looks back down at his orange, starts ripping away chunks of the bright peel. "I want you to like it here."  
  
"Of course I like it here."  
  
"How much?" Joe says.  
  
"I don't know. A normal amount?"  
  
"Enough to maybe-" Joe says. "I mean would you ever think of-" He looks up, eyes sharp on Nick's face, intent. "Like, you could live here."  
  
Nick blinks at him.   
  
"I mean, what's in LA that you can't get here?" He crowds in close to Nick, his hand on Nick's shoulder, his voice speeding up. He smells like oranges. Nick feels a little dizzy, his pulse pounding too hard. "Music?" Joe says. "The studio? We have music and recording studios. We have awesome restaurants and art and plays and concerts and we could, you know-" He stops, catching himself. "Hang out," he finishes lamely.  
  
"Joe-" Nick breathes. "I can't just- I miss you too, but I can't just _move_. My whole life is there."  
  
"Why not?" Joe kind of pouts, his hand squeezing tight against Nick's skin.  
  
"You move to LA," Nick says, jutting his chin stubbornly. "If it's so easy."  
  
"I kind of have a job right now."  
  
"For what? Like three more months?"  
  
"That's not- It could run longer. There could be other plays."  
  
"You can act in LA too."  
  
"Yeah, if I want to go through pilot season hell again." Joe lets go of Nick's shoulder, retreats to the counter. He picks up his orange again. "I'm not doing another shitty sitcom."  
  
"It wasn't that shitty."  
  
"It got cancelled after two episodes."  
  
"You were good though." Nick touches Joe's arm gingerly. He slides his arm carefully around Joe's waist.  
  
Joe shakes his head. "I'm not going back to that. I don't need to turn on **Entertainment Tonight** and hear about my failed acting career every time something falls through, Nick." He peels off a slice of the orange, and holds it up for Nick to take. "I like it here. Flying under the radar."  
  
"I know," Nick says. "I'm not even asking you to move. I was just saying that's why I can't either- I can't just pick up everything and just-" He shoves the orange slice in his mouth. "Start over."   
  
"Starting over can be a good thing though," Joe says, his voice getting breathless and quick again. Hopeful. His arm drapes around Nick's shoulder. His forehead brushes against the side of Nick's face. "If you wanted to- I don't know, get back to making your own music or-" Nick freezes, shoulders tensing. His teeth grit together. Joe stops. Nick can feel it in Joe's arm, the way he freezes too, waiting.   
  
"Why can't you just be happy I'm successful?" Nick says finally. "People are dying to work with me, Joe. People respect me more than they ever did before." He looks over at the grapefruit. He wants to throw it against the wall. He wants to smash all the bagels and the muffins and scream and scream. He peels off another slice of Joe's orange instead. He says quietly, "Why can't you just be proud of me?"  
  
"I _am_ proud of you." Joe's arm tightens, squeezing Nick closer. "I'm so proud of you." He turns Nick around a little, his hands cupping Nick's face, propped up on his neck. His thumb strokes against Nick's throat. He looks at Nick, dark and quiet. He pulls him into Joe's chest, wraps him up in a tight hug. "I just want you to be happy."  
  
Nick fists Joe's shirt in his hands, he buries his face in Joe's shoulder. He doesn't answer.   
  
*  
  
The play is not that great. It's not bad, but it's nothing groundbreaking, nothing Nick hasn't seen before. Joe plays the daughter's boyfriend. He doesn't get any of the funny lines, but he does get one big dramatic yelling scene. Mostly he just has to look at the girl who plays the daughter like he's in love with her.   
  
He's very convincing.  
  
*  
  
There are a bunch of fans waiting afterwards when they push through the backstage doors. Some of them are there for the play. Some of them are Jonas Brothers fans, just there because they wanted to see Joe. Nick can tell which ones they are because they recognize him; they push up close with high pitched squeals in their throats. It's like a time warp or something, like he's right back where he was four years ago, their last tour. He's signing stuff, Joe beside his elbow, cameras flashing bright, girls struck dumb just by their presence.   
  
Joe catches his eye, shaking his head, wide-eyed and grinning. "Like old times," he says.   
  
Nick signs another playbill, another picture, poses for another flashing camera. There are things about who he was before that he misses, that he would miss if he let himself. The roar of thousands when you step into an arena, the rush of hearing the music you wrote sung back to you, the way the music thrums and throbs like a live thing from the stage. He misses looking over and seeing Joe, seeing Kevin, up there with him. He even misses the buses, the flights, the hotels, the early mornings, the late nights. He misses looking out at all those faces, different faces every day, thousands of faces, voices. All those people. Listening to him.   
  
He never liked the paparazzi part of it, the people crowding too close, touching him, following him. That scary intensity, the way it was never enough. The way they always wanted more and more. He thought he was relieved that part was over.   
  
He never thought this was one of the parts he missed.   
  
  
*  
  
Joe's friends are loud with the dramatic _notice me_ flair of like 80% of all the actors Nick's ever met in his life. And there are a lot of them. They've pushed three tables together, all piled in each other's laps, laughing and drinking. It feels like they've taken over the entire bar, and not for the first time. The bartenders all know them by name, and half the waitresses give Joe flirty smiles and laughing complaints about him never calling them back.   
  
"He's a heartbreaker," Jamie agrees.   
  
"He broke mine," a black-haired girl whose name Nick's already forgotten nods sympathetically.  
  
"I'm pretty sure I'll never love again," another girl calls from the other end of the table.  
  
"I was half a virgin when I met him," Scott sighs, propping his chin on his fist wistfully.   
  
"Guys!" Joe laughs and scoots his chair over closer to Nick's, reaching to cover Nick's ears with his hands. His thumbs dig in against the curve of Nick's neck. Nick elbows him off, laughing too.   
  
"I need to hear this," he says. "I'm writing a twelve page report for mom."  
  
"Cone of secrecy!" Joe says, steepling his arms over his head.   
  
Nick shakes his head, smiling. He looks over at all the unfamiliar faces across the table, these people that Nick only knows in a vague second hand, in oddly shaped little pieces that fit on the screen of his phone, in long telephone conversations and short texts. It feels sort of strange that the Joe they know has nothing at all to do with Nick. Like Joe's just this completely separate person. Which he _is_ , just- It's just strange.   
  
But Nick laughs along with the stories about people he doesn't know, and places he hasn't been. He answers questions that are a little more personal than he'd like with a smirk and a wink. He sits surrounded by what feels like a bunch of kids, kids getting louder and sloppier and sillier, and it's everything he hated about his very brief stint in college, the whole place feeling like something he'd outgrown before he ever got there. But he sits, and he smiles. You can't come out the other side of that many interviews, that many girls screaming loud enough to drown out the world, and not know how to put on a smile.   
  
The girl who's playing the maid in the show sits down in Joe's lap casually like it's not the first time she's been there. His arms come easily around her waist, and she kicks her leg up as she reaches over to snag her beer off the table.   
  
"You don't have to call me back," she says into Joe's ear.  
  
Nick watches her, considering. He's been playing the "how many of the people in this room has Joe actually slept with" game for years. It's a decent game, challenging because Joe flirts with everyone: people he knows, people he doesn't know, people he's just met, coat racks, dogs, mailboxes. Nick watches as she offers Joe the rest of her beer, eyes sort of vague and too shiny, lipstick still bright on her lips from the stage. Joe shakes his head, barely distracted from this story he's telling about the Blacula Hunter he's sure he saw at Whole Foods two weeks ago. Yeah. Nick's pretty sure Joe hasn't actually slept with her.   
  
Scott sits down in the empty chair next to Nick, and leans in close against the noise around them. Nick fights the urge to pull away from him, the dark, slightly spicy scent of him. Scott smiles. It's a friendly smile, but kind of hungry too. It makes Nick uneasy. He thinks about that picture, about Scott's hand on Joe's hip.  
  
"Twelve top forty hits in two years," Scott says. "Pretty impressive."  
  
Nick inclines his head, relieved, understanding the hunger now. Aspiring singer meets successful record producer. He sits back a little in his chair and waits for the pitch.  
  
"How many number ones?" Scott asks.  
  
"Four," Nick says. "But who's counting." He shrugs a little. "One of those was a co-write," he admits.   
  
Scott waves that away airily with his hand. "Please. Modesty is so unbecoming."  
  
Nick grins tightly. "Is that your cue to tell me how amazingly talented you are?"  
  
"Well, if you insist," Scott says loftily. Nick watches him grin, puts his face on an album cover just to see what it would look like. He's good looking. Bright blue eyes and black hair cut just right to sweep across his forehead. Nick can see his smile, teasing and a little cheeky, looking out from the CD racks at Wal-mart. He thinks about Scott's lips on Joe's jaw. He thinks about how badly Scott wants what Nick could do for his career, how easy it would be to make him beg.   
  
Nick holds his hand out, flicks his fingers impatiently. "Okay," he says. "Gimme the demo."   
  
Scott doesn't even pretend not to know what Nick's talking about. He doesn't bother looking sheepish either, slipping the disc out of the inside pocket of his coat with a wink. Nick can't help respecting the unapologetic ambition. He watches Scott duck his head when he thinks Nick has his eyes on the thin CD case, his lips twisting up into something less than glossy hard confidence, something softened up with hope. Nick feels a sympathetic twinge.   
  
"No promises," he says. Maybe he'll even listen to it.  
  
Scott lifts one shoulder elegantly, a smirk on his face. Bulletproof again, impenetrable. "Not my first rodeo," he says. Nick nods.   
  
Joe pushes in between them, sitting down backward in his chair, forcing Scott to scoot his own chair back to make room. "Is this guy bothering you?" he asks, plucking the CD from Nick's hand. He extends it toward Scott, motions impatiently for Scott to take it. "I thought I said no demos."  
  
"Hey, he asked me for it." Scott raises a cocky eyebrow.  
  
"I did ask him," Nick agrees. He makes a grab for the CD, Joe jerking it out of reach at the last moment. Joe laughs right next to his ear, a quick huff of breath. "I do know how to say no."   
  
"If you really did, you would have said no to this loser." Joe motions with his thumb.  
  
"I appreciate your confidence," Scott says sweetly. "In my abilities."  
  
"Why do you hate your friends, Joe?" Nick lunges, grinning as he knocks into Joe, his fingers just snagging the edge of the case, not quite enough to grab it.   
  
"Yeah, Joe." Scott sits back and watches, smiling, a casual hand on his ankle where it crosses on top of his knee. "Why don't you want your friends to become famous pop stars?"  
  
Joe snorts. "He's not here to make you famous, asshole." He elbows Nick in the gut, pretty hard too. "At least keep it on the downlow," he says, and shoves the CD into Nick's back pocket, tries to anyway. It doesn't quite fit. His breath falls warm on Nick's ear as he leans past him to tuck the CD inside Nick's jacket pocket where it's draped over the back of his chair instead. "If these jackals realize you took this, you won't be able to get out of here without a demo from every single person in this bar."  
  
"Even that guy?" Nick says, motioning with his chin to an old guy in a worn ball cap, sitting by himself over in the corner.  
  
"Especially that guy," Joe says. "That dude-" He shakes his head, looking at Scott. "That night, man. With the _Foreigner_ marathon?"  
  
"Oh, you mean the best night ever?" Scott says.  
  
"That's the one." Joe holds up a hand, and Scott leans in to smack him five. "The leather pants," Joe says, making a yikes face.  
  
"Oh, shit. Don't forget the hair. That cap is providing a valuable public service, shielding us from that hair."  
  
"I bet you five bucks he has a demo with him."  
  
"Chump bet."  
  
"I bet you five bucks it's all like, covers of _Boston_ or something."  
  
"No bet," Scott says. "If you want me to give you five dollars, just ask."  
  
Joe leans over into Scott, cracking up. Scott's hand touches lightly against Joe's waist, their heads bent close together. "I'm pretty sure you still owe me at least three thousand for the emotional damages I suffered when you dragged me to that performance art monstrosity," Joe snickers.  
  
"Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits," Scott chirps, opening and closing his hands. Joe laughs harder, smacking Scott on the shoulder.   
  
"Two and a half hours, man!"  
  
"You love it when I emotionally damage you," Scott grins. He tugs Joe in and nuzzles his face jokingly into Joe's neck, snapping his teeth, tickling with his nose. His hand presses softly into the small of Joe's back, familiar.  
  
Nick's pretty sure they've slept together. It sits dull and small and heavy in the pit of his stomach. He shifts uneasily and orders a scotch and soda. Joe stops in the middle of some laughing thing he's saying about a Hessian helmet and gives Nick a weird look. He takes the glass from Nick when the waitress brings it, smells at it and wrinkles his nose. "You don't drink," he says.  
  
"I drink," Nick says. "Occasionally." Just barely. He drinks with powerful people who're mostly all older than him, powerful people he wants to take him seriously. People he doesn't want to look at him like he's That Disney Kid. He only ever orders whiskey. Manly drinks for real men. Businesslike drinks for business meetings. He drinks them watered down so he won't feel it, checks his levels like clockwork, stays in control. He doesn't drink to get drunk.   
  
Except tonight maybe he will a little.   
  
Joe looks at him skeptically, like he can't believe there's any way Nick could surprise him. "Since when."  
  
"Since a while," Nick says, hearing a stubborn insistence come into his voice. Joe doesn't know everything about him. Joe doesn't know a lot.   
  
Joe slides the glass back over to him. "Scotch?" he says. "I thought I taught you better than that."   
  
Nick takes a sip, trying to hide his wince with Joe's eyes on him. It's supposed to be an acquired taste, but it seems like he would have acquired it by now.   
  
Joe smiles at him, a smirky "I'm right about everything" smile. He leans over to whisper hot in Nick's ear. "You don't drink."  
  
Nick frowns at him, and takes another swig. This time he doesn't flinch.  
  
*  
  
The first, the only, time Nick's ever been drunk was the week he started college. It was a couple months after they wrapped up their last world tour, and a couple months before he dropped out. It was Joe's idea. Most of the bad ideas have always been Joe's. Joe showed up on his doorstep with a bottle of vodka and a bottle of Diet Coke, and a bunch of B.S. about Nick needing to get drunk the first time with someone he trusted so he could handle it later on his own. He sounded like the pamphlets they gave out at freshman orientation. Nick carefully explained that he wasn't planning on getting drunk again later, and that he'd been handling things on his own for quite a while now. But he hadn't seen Joe in a month and a half, and Joe had been smiling, and long story short Nick drank a lot of vodka.   
  
Nick didn't like it.  
  
He didn't like the taste, the burn. He didn't like the way the sharp heat spread, softened. He didn't like the way his tongue felt thick in his mouth. The way he could feel himself going loose and fuzzy, crumbling on the inside as everything started to bleed out, everything careful and controlled spilling out all over. His legs wouldn't move when he told them to move, and his mouth was saying things before he even realized it was moving. The more drunk he got, the harder it was to tell that there was something wrong, to notice that he wasn't in control. It scared him how easy it was to slip, to lose himself.   
  
Joe had laughed at him a lot, and stroked his hair when Nick lay down with his head in Joe's lap. Nick remembers the way his fingers felt specifically, remembers the drag of them against his scalp, the tug of them through his hair. He remembers Joe's legs under his head, and he remembers less clearly pushing up Joe's shirt, pressing his open mouth to Joe's skin. He remembers Joe's laughter heaving in his belly, heaving against Nick's mouth.  
  
Joe kept checking Nick's blood sugar, and sometimes he'd make him eat something or drink some water. It was- Nick just kind of let him.   
  
The two of them were lying on the floor, on the carpet, Nick remembers the carpet was rough against his skin. They were lying in opposite directions with their heads next to each other. Nick turned and looked at Joe up close. He had his eyes closed, eyelashes dark against his cheek. His fingers were moving in the air, playing an air guitar solo. He was smiling a little.   
  
Nick wanted to kiss him.   
  
It wasn't the first time he'd ever wanted to kiss Joe. But it was the first time he couldn't remember why he shouldn't. It had scared him how easy it was to forget.  
  
*  
  
Nick finishes another scotch. He looks at the glasses lined up in front of him, and counts them slowly, touching his finger to each one. He's drunk enough that he's starting to feel blurry, drunk enough that his whole body feels heavy and sloppy and not entirely his own, drunk enough that he feels like everything inside him is starting to rattle around loose. He's still sober enough that it's kind of freaking him out. He thinks this was probably a bad idea. Joe nudges into Nick's arm with his shoulder. "Okay?"  
  
Nick smiles at him, and Joe shakes his head. "I've seen your press conference smile too many times, dude." He leans in close against the noise, his voice soft in Nick's hair. "What's wrong?" His knee presses against Nick's thigh, and Nick feels himself go hot and liquid. Feels it happen so easily, just bleed right through him, and it feels so good. He closes his eyes. "Want to go?" Joe says.  
  
Nick shakes his head no. He likes this, right now. He tucks himself in closer to Joe, Joe's arm coming up to circle around him, his body snugged in close. Nick feels his smile turn into something real, feels himself start to forget why he was worried. He shakes his head again, Joe's shirt brushing against his cheek.   
  
"Are you sure you're okay," Joe says. His hand smoothes over Nick's back. "Where's your kit?"   
  
"Don't need it," Nick says. "I feel good." He rubs his cheek against Joe's shoulder, touches Joe's collarbone with his fingers. "I'm really good. I feel so good."  
  
"How do you feel, Nick?"   
  
"Pretty good," Nick says, nodding.   
  
Joe laughs a little under his breath. "Let's just check your levels once before we go, okay?"  
  
"I know what I'm doing," Nick says, can't quite keep the pout out of his voice.   
  
"Sure you do."  
  
"I'm grown up, you know. I'm like- I have a business, and people work for me and stuff. I have like- I do a lot of stuff. It's really- I take care of myself all the time, like every day."  
  
"I know you do," Joe says, his voice going soft and serious. He strokes Nick's back some more, petting down the center of his spine. It feels really good.  
  
"So, I don't need you to be all-" Nick waves his fingers vaguely. "I already have a mom."  
  
"I know," Joe says.   
  
"You know a lot," Nick says, squinting one eye shut.  
  
"I know that too." Joe fumbles around in Nick's coat until he comes up with Nick's monitor. He grabs Nick's hand, pricks Nick's finger efficiently, before Nick has caught up with what's happening. He strokes over the puncture with his thumb. "Okay," he says, when the number comes up.  
  
"Told you," Nick gloats. "I totally did. I totally, totally know what I'm doing."   
  
Joe's arm tightens across Nick's back, underneath Nick's arms. He heaves Nick up to his feet. "Come on," he says. "I'm taking you home."  
  
*  
  
It's dark in the back of the cab, just the light of the streetlamps, gold on Joe's face. Nick feels gold like the light, like he's spilling out. Joe's arm is draped over Nick's shoulders, and Nick leans into him. Spills out onto him, touching his knee with his fingertips, wiggling his arm in behind Joe's back, fingers digging in on the other side of his waist. He snuggles as close as he can, his lips brushing light against the side of Joe's neck, light enough to be an accident. But it's not.   
  
*  
  
Climbing stairs is pretty much impossible when you're drunk is what Nick is realizing. Everything's moving around too much, and he keeps thinking his legs are longer than they are. Joe's arm is tight around his waist, holding him up, but he can't catch his breath, and he trips over another step, lurching against Joe's arm. He feels the whole world ripple under his feet, ripple up inside him, push against the back of his throat like he might throw up.   
  
"Okay," Nick says, leaning against the wall. "Okay, I'm sitting down now. For a second." He drops down to one of the stairs, and hunches over. Joe sits next to him, his hand stroking against Nick's back slowly. His warm palm settles on the back of Nick's neck.  
  
"You okay?" he says.  
  
"Don't know," Nick mumbles.  
  
"Want me to give you a piggy back ride?"   
  
Nick snickers. "Only if you want me to throw up on the back of your head."  
  
"I can't believe you got drunk." Joe leans in against Nick's side, his arm over Nick's shoulders, pulling him in so he's tilted into Joe's chest. Joe strokes a hand through Nick's hair. Nick feels like all the things he tries to fit inside him, all the sharp bits he tries not to touch, and all the big things he tries to keep small, and all the lines that make it so hard to move sometimes, to breathe, they're all just melted. It's all just bleeding out, soaking through him just like he wanted. Just easy like he wanted.   
  
Nick curls tighter into Joe's side. His hand slips down to wrap around Joe's thigh, his fingers moving against the inside of Joe's leg. Joe's breath hitches, Nick can feel it, feel it move against his skin. Joe's hand brushes through Nick's hair again, heavy, his fingers scratching softly at Nick's scalp. Nick closes his eyes, hand tightening on Joe's leg, sliding higher up. He nuzzles his nose into the side of Joe's neck. He reaches up and presses his fingers against the line of Joe's jaw, against the slope of his neck. He touches a single dark mole. Presses on it.   
  
"Nick," Joe says, his voice dry, cracked.   
  
God, Nick just wants- He just wants Joe to touch him. His skin. All his skin. He wants Joe to touch him for hours, just touch him with his hands. No, with his tongue. Yes. His eyes half shut. He leans in close and rubs against Joe's arm. He takes Joe's hand, holds it against Nick's throat, against the hot skin there. Joe's fingers curl in the collar of his shirt, pulling. Nick can feel his breath sharp in his lungs, hurting a little when he drags the air in too hard, too fast. He slides Joe's hand up under Nick's shirt. Joe's knuckles are bent, so just the backs of them, the side of his hand drag against the skin of Nick's belly. Joe's staring, his eyes wide, his nostrils flared. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and then his hand is turning under Nick's. His palm presses to Nick's skin, his fingers digging in.  
  
"Nick," he breathes.   
  
"Yes." Nick's mouth moves silently around the word, stretching it between his teeth.  
  
"You- This isn't-" Joe curls his hand up again so it's only touching Nick a little bit, it's not touching Nick enough. "You're drunk, and you don't really want-"   
  
"I'm drunk," Nick says, nodding. He closes his fist around Joe's, trying to keep Joe from pulling his hand away.  
  
"I _know_ ," Joe says miserably.  
  
"Did it so I could be-" Nick says, trying to make his too thick tongue work, say the things he never lets himself say. "Different. From how I am." Nick presses his tongue, his teeth to the side of Joe's neck. Joe's heartbeat is rabbit quick under his mouth. "Please. Just-" He tilts Joe's head down so he can press their lips together, because he needs Joe to touch him inside, needs Joe wet in his mouth, needs Joe to touch him everywhere all the time, not just a little, not just on the outside.   
  
Joe's mouth slides into Nick's lips, and he makes a broken wanting sound. His hand flattens out again, broad underneath Nick's shirt, on his skin. His tongue slips past Nick's open lips. His mouth moves against Nick's, slick and hot. His fingers dig hard into the hair at the nape of Nick's neck. Nick shudders, tasting Joe's wet mouth, sucking on his bottom lip. Nick can feel himself sliding under the hungry lean of Joe's body, under the press of his hands, his lips. But Nick still needs to get closer, more. He hauls a leg over Joe's lap, knees bent on the stair. He cups Joe's face in his hands, presses into Joe with his lips, with his hips. Joe's hands spread out across his back, under his shirt, climbing his ribs. Nick grinds down, down onto Joe's hard dick. Joe's mouth falls open in a soundless gasp, fingers digging into Nick's shoulder blade, the small of his back. Nick shoves his hips down again, Joe rolling up. Nick keeps kissing him, sloppy, wet. He fumbles with Joe's zipper, panting as he gets his hand on the thick, heavy heat of Joe's dick.   
  
It's so easy. Everything is easy.   
  
*  
  
Nick wakes up with a jerk, and for a second he has no idea where he is. His head is kind of swimming, heavy, dizzy. He stares at the sharp lines on the ceiling where the light from outside has filtered through the window; he listens to the wail of sirens, the thumping bass of a car going past. Right. New York. And this is Joe's bed, and the reason his underwear feels so disgusting is because he was humping Joe in the goddamn stairwell. Right. Now he remembers. Well, he remembers enough anyway. He thinks he can figure out what the blurrier bits are, what goes in the blank spaces.   
  
Crap.   
  
He sneaks a look over at Joe's side of the bed. Joe's not there. He feels at Joe's pillow, but there's no Post-It.  
  
Crapcrapcrap.  
  
He presses the heel of his hand to the middle of his forehead, to the low throb under his skull. He takes a deep breath and scoots down off the bed, walks a little unsteadily to the living room. Joe's watching him quietly from the couch.  
  
"Uh," Nick says, tensing up abruptly. "Hey."  
  
"Hey."   
  
"What are you doing out here?"  
  
"Couldn't sleep."  
  
Nick hesitates, his curled fingers brushing the arm of the sofa. He could just go to the bathroom. He could just go back to bed. And in the morning, maybe the whole thing will just disappear into blurry bits. It would be like it had never happened.   
  
Joe looks at him, steady and quiet. Nick shoves Joe over on the couch, sliding in beside him. Joe moves over, squeezing himself up tight against the back cushions like he's trying to get as far away from Nick as he can. Like he doesn't want to touch him.  
  
"So," Nick says. "That was-" He frowns. "That happened." Joe looks over at him. He doesn't say anything though. It's starting to make Nick nervous. More nervous. "I think I'm still kind of drunk," he says.  
  
Joe shakes his head once, gives a short little snort through his nose. He shoves Nick over a little with his elbow. "Go back to bed, Nick." He sounds really pissed off.   
  
"Wait. You're pissed at me?"   
  
"You sound surprised," Joe says, sarcasm thick.  
  
"I mean I thought it would be awkward, I didn't know you were going to be pissed off. I thought- I mean, you got what you wanted, didn't you?"  
  
"Right." Joe turns his face into the couch, his back to Nick, his voice coming out muffled. "I got what I wanted? Like I wanted you to be fall down drunk? I practically had to carry you up the stairs after, you were so out of it." He laughs, brittle and sharp. "Are you even going to remember it tomorrow?" He looks over his shoulder at Nick. "Are we going to awkwardly ignore it and pretend it didn't happen until you leave again in a couple days and I don't see you for another six months? Because that's always been a dream of mine." He turns his head away again. " _You_ got what you wanted, Nick. I got a handjob."  
  
Okay. So. Maybe that's fair. Nick thinks guiltily about how he kind of wishes he _would_ forget. About how much easier it would be to just go away from here and let the distance creep back in. It's safer when there's space between them, when he has plenty of time to figure out how to not say, not do the things he shouldn't. Nick stares at the back of Joe's neck for a long time, the defensive hunch of his shoulders. He thinks about how the distance isn't really that much easier, not when it aches so deep, when the empty spaces are so, so empty. "What _do_ you want?" he asks.  
  
Joe doesn't answer for a long time. Nick thinks maybe he won't, but he does finally. "I want you to stay," he says into the couch cushions, not looking at Nick. "I want to be something you- Something you still want when you're sober."   
  
Nick touches his back cautiously, slides his hand up over Joe's shoulder. "I'm sober now," Nick says. "Almost." Joe turns over onto his back. He looks up at Nick, his eyes guarded. He lies there quietly, waiting. Nick fits his hand carefully to the curve of Joe's neck. His fingers tremble. "I always want you," Nick whispers. "All the time. I just can't-" He shakes his head dumbly, touches his fingers to the curve of Joe's jaw. "I don't know how to let myself- Have it."   
  
Joe touches his chest, slides his hand down, slowly, gently. He curves his hand around Nick's waist, but he doesn't pull him down. He stares hungrily at Nick's mouth, his eyes dark, his breath quick. But he doesn't lean up to take it. He lies still, quiet. His thumb brushes back and forth over Nick's hip, and he smiles. He waits.  
  
It's not like it was on the stairs. It's not easy. Nick feels tense and a little panicky. A lot panicky maybe. But Joe's waiting for him. Joe's been waiting a long time. Nick tips forward and brushes his lips against Joe's, light, just a little push. He feels Joe's smile under his mouth, feels him laugh, a happy huff that teases at Nick's lips when Nick pushes deeper, inside. Deeper. He catches Joe's lip with his teeth, tasting with his tongue. Joe whimpers, his legs coming up on either side of Nick's hips, his head tossing back when Nick licks, sucks at the salt on his neck. Nick's dick throbs, his skin going slippery with heat. He lets Joe strip his shirt off over his head, little clenching gasp when Joe's hot hands flick at his nipple, slide down his chest.  
  
And then Joe's rolling him back, spreading himself out over Nick like a blanket. Nick tugs at Joe's shirt, their breathless mouths parting just long enough to pull it over Joe's head. Joe reaches down, rubs against the hard ache of Nick's dick. Nick pants, heels skidding restlessly against the couch. Joe kisses him again, needy little nips and slow deep pushes into his mouth while his hips roll, his hard dick sliding against Nick's. He presses his lips, his tongue to Nick's throat, his ribs, the sharp cut of his hip. Nick props himself up on his elbows, watches face hot, as Joe sinks down on his cock with wet, hard sucks and the sweep of his tongue. Nick's legs shake, his hand curved around the graceful swell of Joe's head, touching at his wet chin. Joe pulls off smiling, jacking Nick with his hand while he sucks his fingers into his mouth. Nick's hips jerk, chest heaving. Joe goes down again, tongue on Nick's balls, mouth sucking. His finger traces Nick's hole, wet. Nick tenses.   
  
"Don't worry," Joe says. "I totally know what I'm doing."  
  
It's not as reassuring as he seems to think it is. But then his finger is pressing inside Nick with a small sweet burn, pressing just right against something so bright, hot Nick whines around it. His cock jerks on his stomach, spurting pre-come. Joe presses down again, stroking, and Nick clenches, his back arching, body drawn up tight and overwhelmed with how good it is. How much he aches for Joe to give him more, stretch him out, fill him up, touch him deep inside, deep as he can get. Nick spreads his legs wider, just barely manages not to beg for Joe's dick.   
  
Fuck.  
  
He really knows what he's doing.  
  
*  
  
"I want you to stay," Joe says, his hips rolling. Nick shudders helplessly, his eyes crossing a little as Joe slides in again, bright hot pleasure winding in Nick's gut, throbbing in his dick. "Stay here with me." He shoves in deep, hitting that spot again, again. "Stay." He says it with every thrust back in. "Say it, Nick." He presses his lips to Nick's, messy, wide open. His forehead slides against Nick's, his dick gliding out, in again. Nick gasps, wrapping his arms tighter around Joe's chest, holding on as Joe jolts into him in relentless thick jabs. "Say you'll stay." Nick sucks on his shoulder, fills his mouth up with Joe's skin.   
  
*  
  
"Nick?" Joe's hand idly drags through Nick's hair, sweaty at the nape of his neck.  
  
"Mmmmm-" Nick says sleepily. He has his arm tucked around Joe's waist and his head on Joe's chest. He's listening to Joe breathe.  
  
"How come you don't sing your own songs anymore?"   
  
Nick sighs, lazy sleepiness rolling back underneath the blooming tension in his shoulders. "They make more money when other people sing them," he says lightly. Joe goes back to petting his hair, rubbing the flat of his hand down Nick's spine. Nick relaxes back into him, eyes closing. He squeezes Joe a little tighter to him.  
  
"You should put out another album," Joe says confidently.   
  
Nick groans. He doesn't want to talk about it. He just wants to lie here feeling satisfied and a little sore. He just wants to hear Joe breathing. "No one wants another Nick Jonas album."   
  
"I do," Joe says.   
  
"You're biased. You don't count."  
  
"Just because the last one-"  
  
"Bombed?" Nick fills in.  
  
"Was underappreciated in its own time?" Joe says.  
  
"Bombed," Nick nods.  
  
"It doesn't mean you shouldn't ever make another one."  
  
"I'm a really good producer, Joe. People who would have laughed in our faces before are begging me to work with them." It's true. It's also true that sometimes Nick sits alone in his big house in the middle of the night and plays the songs he hasn't been able to bring himself to sell to anyone else, an imaginary playlist of stuff he's too chicken-shit to record. But whatever. "I'm doing really well," he says. "Everything has really come together."  
  
Joe wiggles around, tangling their legs up, touching at Nick's ankles with his toes. "If your life in LA is so great then why haven't I seen you make a call, check an e-mail?"   
  
"I'm on vacation," Nick says. "I've been busy."  
  
Joe grins at him, leans over to slick Nick's mouth with his tongue. "I like keeping you busy." Nick laughs, stroking his hand over Joe's head. "But what's there?" Joe says, persistent. "What's there that I can't give you?"  
  
"It's not about choosing anything over you, Joe. God. Be more self-absorbed."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"It's-" Nick shakes his head. "It's my whole life. I have a house. I have a business. I have a routine, and a dog, and a maid, and it's just-"  
  
"You can bring the dog," Joe says. "Why do you think I was looking at dog friendly neighborhoods? You can even bring the maid, I don't care. We can find an extra bigger place for all your maids and your dogs."  
  
Nick laughs. "You know it's not that simple."  
  
"Are you happy there?"  
  
"I mean-" Nick frowns. "I'm not _un_ happy."  
  
"But are you _happy_?"  
  
"Happy enough."  
  
Joe runs a slow finger across Nick's collarbone, from shoulder to shoulder. "Are you happy here?" Joe says, finger tapping against the hollow of Nick's throat. "Right now? With me?"  
  
"Well, I'm not loving this discussion if you-"  
  
"You know what I mean."  
  
Nick looks at Joe, his eyes bright, his mouth plumped up sweetly. He presses his hand flat to Joe's chest, feels it rise up underneath a deep breath. He smiles. "Yeah," Nick says.   
  
"So, come be happy with me." Joe grins like it's simple. Like it's just that easy. Like he really thinks Nick's just going to give up everything. Start over right here. Nick leans in and presses a deliberate kiss to Joe's smiling mouth, pressing their lips solidly together. Who knows? Maybe he will. He's done a lot of dumber things for that smile.  
  
end


End file.
